


Equal and Opposite

by Angsty_McGoth (Doctor_Cyance)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-16
Updated: 2008-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Cyance/pseuds/Angsty_McGoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grimmjow doesn't integrate well into the real world. Grimmjow/Ichigo Language, Violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equal and Opposite

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on my LJ (angsty_mcgoth) around 2008, but I'm moving it here due to continuing issues with that platform.

Grimmjow crawled back to consciousness, his mind numb and body aching. Sensation was a dull roar in his brain: unfamiliar smells and the pain of his body, confusion over where he was. He’d never expected to wake after the battlefield, locked together with Ulquiorra while the inner court of Soul Society burned around them. Grimmjow could remember the feel, the taste of Ulquiorra’s throat under his jaws, teeth biting and bones breaking. They’d grappled like an embrace and Ulquiorra’s hands—punched through Grimmjow’s chest to the shoulder—had scrabbled against his back, digging in to pull out Grimmjow’s spine.  
  
Well, shit.  
  
His mind snapped into focus quite clearly for a moment. How the fuck had that ended?  
  
He knew he wasn’t dead—the scratchy blanket covering him and bandages tight across his midsection proved that. And in the room, close, was a smell whose familiarity brought a boiling surge through him and drove him lurching blindly into a sitting position, clutching his chest and gagging against the sudden eruption of pain.  
  
“You’re awake.” And it was Ichigo’s smell, Ichigo’s voice that greeted him. For a moment, he wanted to believe that he was dead and this was hell, but he’d already been there—or the closest approximation thereof—for too long of a time to begin with, thank you very much. If he were in Hueco Mundo, he’d _feel_ it. If that were the case, it’d be Ichigo broken instead, at least if Grimmjow had anything to do with it.  
  
He glared at Ichigo, sitting quite calmly several feet away. ‘ _You_ ’, he wanted to say, the word filled with so much hate that it came out instead as a wordless growl.  
  
“You’ve been down for days,” Ichigo said.  
  
Though he was wearing his shihakushou, Grimmjow knew they weren’t in Soul Society. The building seemed small, wood floor and paper doors; it smelled of humans and outside, Grimmjow could sense them milling about like cattle. The human world, then, not that it mattered. He’d fight the little bastard here as well as anywhere, though why the fuck he was even alive in the first place the only thing that clearly registered.  
  
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Grimmjow said, the words guttural and harsh in his unused throat.  
  
“I owed you, after Ulquiorra.” And if the reparations were a bitch, Ichigo’s face and voice didn’t betray it.  
  
“Hah!” Grimmjow barked, a smile slashing across his face like a silver wound, things coming back faster with Ichigo as his narrow focus. He curled his legs under him, hunching painfully against the still-tender wounds in his chest but ready to spring if the other man made a move. “That prick’s known better than to come between me and a kill. Especially when that kill is _you_ , shinigami.”  
  
The memory came to him suddenly—Ichigo staring down impassively as Grimmjow bled out from twin holes in his chest.  
  
“I remember asking you to let me die with my hands on your throat,” Grimmjow said. “Can’t say this’s a real fair exchange. Now I want your life.”  
  
He remembered—in the months that dragged on into years of the war—finding the kid at every battle. To the death, each one; their released forms breaking the ground and tearing open the sky. And he’d only lost twice, which wasn’t real bad but the shame of cut him like swallowed razors, the gaping hollow of his stomach seeming to yawn wider in those moments. A hunger that could only be answered by finding Ichigo and fucking him up just as badly.  
  
Grimmjow had and oh, it had been _good_ : the feel of the shinigami breaking under his fists and blood pouring. He’d gutted Ichigo twice, life running out like water from a cracked vase. Only to be interrupted each time and always so _conveniently_ for the little shit—it made Grimmjow gnash his teeth, but knowing his quarry still existed drove a spike of excitement blazing into the center of him.  
  
A singular purpose to him alone, beyond Aizen and Soul Society and all the end-of-the-world bullshit; he and Ichigo were a microcosm of that war—as if their fight, once ended, would be what decided everything. Grimmjow knew it had to be the same to Ichigo, he could _feel_ it; why else would the prick keep coming up against him alone?  
  
“You’ve tried to kill me before,” Ichigo snorted, breaking Grimmjow from his thoughts. “I don’t see it happening now. It’s over, Grimmjow. I know you’re stubborn enough to carry on even after Aizen’s abandoned you, but I don’t see much point in it.”  
  
Now _that_ got his attention.  
  
Grimmjow narrowed his eyes, but it made sense—their last assault on Soul Society hadn’t begun as a definitive one, but turned into it, their numbers waning as they took Rukongai. Grimmjow remembered the dead souls there crumbling under his claws as he burned a trail through it; all of the arrancar had consumed and devoured like a fattening feast before their own slaughter. He knew Aizen and the other exiles cared little about losses when their ultimate goal was so close.  
  
When Aizen broke through to the inner court, Grimmjow had been fighting fucking Ichigo, and just like that— as if _Grimmjow didn’t matter_ —the little shit was gone. Always just the little fucking _hero_. Grimmjow had been left stunned and enraged and felt it rushing back to him now.  
  
“Hunh, think I care about that, shinigami?” Grimmjow felt his lip curl, anticipation shivering over his numbed nerves. “Doesn’t change anything and you know it.”  
  
Ichigo’s brow furrowed in a predictable scowl before he stood, turning his back on Grimmjow—that tiny insult didn’t go unnoticed; he might be injured but it was a bleeding animal that bit the hardest. Ichigo either ignored him or didn’t notice, crossing the room to open a window and let in the bright, warm, _human-world_ sunlight. Grimmjow hissed as it flooded his eyes, sharp as a lance.  
  
“You’re pitiful,” Ichigo spat over his shoulder. “You really would throw everything away, go against Aizen and turn traitor—just so you could be the one to kill me?”  
  
“Why not? Those chains were starting to chafe anyway.”  
  
“Look where it’s left you now.”  
  
“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning for the fucking future now was I, you stupid piece of shit,” Grimmjow snorted. “Maybe I dug that grave but you’re the dumbfuck who pulled me outta it. If you think that squares things between us, I can’t wait to show you how wrong you are.”  
  
“In the shape you’re in, I’d like to see you try,” Ichigo said, the challenge in his eyes making Grimmjow rise only to buckle against the sharp stabbing in his chest as he tried. That fuck, Ulquiorra. Always so much power in such a tiny frame and he’d used it well, splitting Grimmjow open front-to-back. Ichigo was right: he would’ve been dead, and he seethed that the shinigami was the one who prevented it.  
  
Ichigo was smirking slightly as he watched Grimmjow struggle, just _so fucking superior_. It wasn’t mercy that drove Ichigo to see him this way, Grimmjow knew; he’d been saved out of pure malicious spite. He longed to tear the kid apart for it, knowing a fight now would be easily lost; it would be embarrassing to try.  
  
“Che, thanks for your fucking pity, shinigami,” Grimmjow sneered, twitching his fingers to open a garganta. He didn’t mind backing out of this round for the moment; with Ichigo, there would always be another chance. “You know it only makes me hate you more.”  
  
A sudden irrevocable _wrongness_ jerked deep in Grimmjow’s chest. Though he poured energy into the dimensional tear it was almost like there was nothing inside him to use. His fingers faltered, a sick wasting draining his breath and anything left he could feel—the small flicker of reiryoku, weak as a dying cinder.  
  
“I’m afraid leaving will be quite impossible.”  
  
Grimmjow jerked towards the sound of that voice—and holy shit, he hadn’t even felt the other shinigami in the room, so restrained and controlled was his reiatsu. The other man had obviously been there the entire time, calmly observing them from behind a low table, tea steaming in front of him. Ichigo always did deaden his senses to anything else and it gave Grimmjow just one more reason to hate him.  
  
“Who the fuck’re you?” he growled.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” the man said, nodding his head towards Grimmjow. “Urahara Kisuke.”  
  
“That supposed to mean something to me?”  
  
“Perhaps not,” the man said, making a _tsk_ -ing sound of slight disappointment.  
  
“He created the hougyoku, dumbass,” Ichigo said, scorn dripping from his words.  
  
Grimmjow flipped him the bird, scowling. “We can’t all be as learned as you, motherfucker.”  
  
“It doesn’t take much.” Ichigo crossed the room to take a seat at the table as well.  
  
“Always been more’n you’ve fucking got.”  
  
“You probably tell yourself that every time I smear you across the floor. Does it make it easier, or does your ego just cushion the blow—“  
  
_That_ made Grimmjow laugh, a giddy cackle that had Ichigo’s nostrils flaring in annoyance.  
  
“That’s called skill, kid. Cut it any way you like, but I never had to work to catch up to _you_.” He settled back on his haunches, elbows resting easily on each knee. “You can match me once or twice, I’ll buy that; everyone gets lucky, even you. But I never needed saving.”  
  
“What d’you call this, shithead?”  
  
“An inconvenience.” Grimmjow’s lips twitched smugly as Ichigo scowled.  
  
“Just what is your goddamn problem, you ungrateful prick?”  
  
“Aw, did I touch a nerve? You’re in for a helluva surprise if you think you’re getting _thanked_ —“  
  
Urahara coughed politely. “Are you both quite finished?” His eyes flicked between them expectantly.  
  
“No!” Grimmjow snapped, along with Ichigo, almost in unison. It made him hiss angrily—wanting, daring the other man to keep going. If anything, it seemed to focus Ichigo as he crossed his arms over his own bandaged chest, steadfastly ignoring him.  
  
Little fucking coward.  
  
“If we could return to the topic at hand,” Urahara continued as if there’d never been an interruption. Grimmjow could see a broad smile hiding behind his fluttering paper fan. “Although I’ve never seen the hougyoku as one of my proudest inventions, if it’s not too presumptuous of me, I always considered myself something of a godfather to the arrancar, given that it was a creation of mine that led to your own.”  
  
Grimmjow snorted at that. “And I should care why?”  
  
“You may care because I have a rather…intimate understanding of the origins of your powers,” Urahara laughed lightly, the wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes like a raccoon’s as he peered shrewdly from beneath it. “Including how to negate them.”  
  
“What the fuck did you do to me?”  
  
“Hm. You may consider it a sort of insurance. Due to the incredible amount of reiatsu you produce, your presence in this world would immediately be recognized by Soul Society and acted upon,” he said, nodding towards Ichigo. “Given that Kurosaki has brought you here—and I myself would rather avoid the unfortunate consequences of that as well—the device implanted within you serves to reduce your spiritual presence as well as your command of that power.”  
  
Grimmjow felt a low sinking in his gut. “You cut my claws off!”  
  
“You may consider it a collar, if you prefer. Small consolation though that may be.”  
  
“I’ll fucking kill you!”  
  
Ichigo restrained him from lurching across the table with a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down—“  
  
“Fuck you!” he snapped, throwing the kid’s arm off. “Think this is fucking funny? Don’t think you can hold me like this, I’ll tear out whatever you put in me—“  
  
“I’m afraid that would have a most unfortunate outcome,” Urahara said, his voice full of amusement as though he were watching an insect struggle against the needle that pinned it. “If you attempt to remove it—or to release your powers to their full extent—the dampening device will react poorly, and may permanently damage your saketsu and hakusui. Though I am not completely sure of the consequences, I can assure you that it wouldn’t be pleasant.  
  
“Consider that _our_ insurance.” He leaned forward, his shadowed eyes clearly entertained. “Given what we know of you and your abilities…it seemed only prudent.”  
  
Grimmjow seethed, stifling a low growl that started in the back of his throat. Fuck, to be helpless like this and at Ichigo’s hands—Grimmjow’s corpse dragged off the field just so he could be brought back worse than dead. It was the perfect revenge and they both knew it.  
  
He rounded on Ichigo. “Why, you sack of shit? Why? Do you fucking hate me this much?”  
  
“I don’t hate you!” Ichigo seemed affronted. “You were dying—“  
  
“I’d rather _be_ dead!”  
  
He lunged at Ichigo and they grappled, Grimmjow’s jaws snapping almost in reach of his face. Ichigo held him off, lips white and thinned when he spoke. “You were dying because you’d helped us. I don’t know why you did it and you can deny it however you like—”  
  
“Locking me in a goddamn cage is a fine way of showing gratitude, you little shit!” Grimmjow hissed. _Fuck_ , for only an inch of his power back he could snap the kid’s arm under his fingers and hear him _scream_.  
  
“Despite whatever you think, you’re _not_ my prisoner—“  
  
“I am and you _fucking_ know it!”  
  
Keep your enemies dead or broken, owing their lives in humiliated defeat—Ichigo could rationalize it any other way, but Grimmjow knew that was the truth of why he was kept alive. It was what he would’ve done.  
  
Anger like consumption overrode the pain of his body until a sudden spike jumped in his abdomen, sharp as if he’d been stabbed. He thrust Ichigo away, clutching at his bandaged stomach even as fresh blood failed to appear, the pain fading to an empty ache. For a desperate moment, he wondered if he’d snapped whatever restraint they’d put in him leaving him truly helpless.  
  
“You ought to be more careful, Kurosaki,” Urahara murmured, “He’s still rather delicate.”  
  
Grimmjow shot him an eyeful of loathing for that remark.  
  
The raccoon bastard was eyeing him with renewed interest. “Or is it possible that you are…hungry?”  
  
“I don’t get hungry. None of us do, not anymore.” Grimmjow grunted as nausea churned in his gut. His eyes snapped back to Ichigo, still in a defensive crouch and on his guard. Grimmjow bared his teeth in a jagged grin, the kind that’d make the kid piss himself. “At least not that kind of hunger.”  
  
The comment went ignored as Urahara sipped his tea thoughtfully. “That may have been true, but in observing your recovery you were also…declining considerably.  
  
“I realize that we may be partially responsible for that but I also suspect, created as you were by Aizen’s power, that his presence alone was enough to sustain you, as well as the other arrancar birthed by the hougyoku. In his absence, however,” Urahara shrugged. “It seems that you may require spiritual nourishment by some other means.”  
  
“You’re starting to smell pretty good yourself!” Grimmjow spat. “You both are. I wouldn’t mind if I got to take pieces of you with me!”  
  
Urahara laughed at him then, making Grimmjow’s rage spike instantaneously.  
  
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” he responded mildly, and his reiatsu poured out, hitting Grimmjow like a kick to his chest that drove the air out of his lungs. _Fuck_ , he was strong. His power filled up the room, rushing into Grimmjow’s veins like ice. And for the first time in what had to be ages, Grimmjow felt something like fear crawl up his spine; fear and a helpless _weakness_.  
  
“Now then,” the shinigami began, his reiatsu receding like water trickling down a slope and leaving Grimmjow slick under a cold sweat. “I realize this may seem a great deal of information to absorb in your current condition, but I trust you understand your situation as it now is?”  
  
Grimmjow jerk his head in a harsh nod, not trusting his voice or what it would sound like.  
  
“If you require reishi to satisfy yourself, I suggest you return to your previous method of acquiring it.”  
  
He knew what the prick meant—consuming other hollows. The idea, the taste of it, was bitter against Grimmjow’s tongue. There were better ways than that; the shinigami would make more of a satisfying fight and Grimmjow could sense at least three, possibly more, individual spiritual signatures in the area. Although reishi was scarce in the material world, humans had it, either alive or dead.  
  
Grimmjow’s claws would be like a scythe amongst them and the idea drew a wicked grin across his lips.  
  
“And if I don’t?” he snorted, eyes snapping a challenge between the shop keeper and Ichigo.  
  
“If indeed that is your unfortunate course of action, I’m afraid that the only alternative left to us will be to end you.”  
  
Grimmjow could hear the bastard’s smirk hiding behind his quivering fan and it made a fresh wildness erupt in him. He might be cut off from the majority of his reiryoku but he’d never needed that to simply choke the life out of someone. In a flash, he lunged over the table, feeling it break under him and wanting to snap the fucker’s neck just as easily. Pain rippled along his nerves but he hardly noticed, excitement masking it in a mad surge.  
  
The shop keeper’s hand closed around his wrist almost effortlessly—shit, he was fast; faster than Grimmjow could follow. Next thing he knew, he was on his stomach, his arm twisted behind him painfully and a sandaled foot placed against the back of his neck. Grimmjow struggled in the hold, snarling and wrenching his arm only to have it groan sickeningly in the other man’s grip.  
  
“If you persist, your wrist will break,” Urahara said.  
  
Grimmjow roared, bucking against the knee digging into his spine and trying to throw the prick off. His arm bent unnaturally, bones shrieking and then giving with a sick _crack_ he could feel in his teeth. He howled, curses spilling from his mouth like venom.  
  
“Stop, Grimmjow,” Ichigo said, his controlled voice shooting through Grimmjow’s brain like a current. “This is embarrassing.”  
  
“Let me up and I’ll tear your fucking throat out, Kurosaki!” Grimmjow spat, reckless and wild.  
  
Urahara’s fingers clenched around his wrist like a vice, driving the broken bones together and wrenching a pained whine from him. Grimmjow clenched his jaw against it, stilling, the fingers of his free hand knotting against the wooden floor.  
  
“You will not. You’ve tried before and you were beaten,” Ichigo said, staring him down. “Just like you’re beaten now.”  
  
And oh, he hated them, hated them both but the kid most of all. It built in him, tearing at his clenched muscles and escaping as a noise, choked and involuntary. Grimmjow could feel his face flush with heat—rage and shame and helplessness; through it all, Ichigo never looked away.  
  
He was abruptly released and Urahara stood with two wooden clacks of his sandals to return to his seat.  
  
“Would you mind bringing us some fresh tea, Ururu?” he said to a girl peering around the corner of the door. “Ours appear to have spilled.”  
  
Grimmjow could feel her reiatsu—huge, but timid and fearful—as she nodded once and scampered away. Not for the first time, Grimmjow was left wondering what the _fuck_ was wrong with this place.  
  
The raccoon-bastard opened his fan in one crisp snap, saying in his arrogant voice, “And that, as you can see, is your situation.”  
  
“The fuck it is!” Grimmjow leapt to his feet. His wrist throbbed sharply but he wasn’t about to favor it and let them see. “I’m your dog now, eh? Think you can keep me on a leash? Fuck you!”  
  
“Shut up!” Ichigo snapped, standing to face him. “Get it through your thick fucking skull, Grimmjow. We’re _not_ making a captive of you. You did this to yourself, whatever your reasons were, when you fought as my ally.”  
  
Ichigo snatched the collar of Grimmjow’s coat, breath hot against his face. Seething and angry and yeah, Grimmjow could feel that too, could match the little fucker inch for inch if he wanted to start a brawl right here and now.  
  
“I’ll be damned if I don’t pay my debts.”  
  
“Think we’re even now? How cute,” Grimmjow snorted, slapping his hand away. “The only way you could return that one would be with your own life, Kurosaki. You never had the balls to kill me and I will make you regret it.”  
  
Something shifted behind the brat’s eyes at that, rising to his challenge. Ichigo’s jaw clenched like he was fighting it, but Grimmjow knew he—they—could go _right the fuck now_ in a red frenzy. Settle the score with both of them broken; now Grimmjow’s blood was racing, pounding in his temples, the hunger-ache in his body gnawing in painful anticipation. It escaped in a sound that was a hiss and a moan, steam boiling up from hot rocks—he could taste the shinigami’s blood in his mouth as a sense-memory, just like before—  
  
Urahara cleared his throat mildly and both of them started. “If I could clarify one point I’m afraid you’re a bit mistaken on: though your reiatsu is restrained, you yourself are not. You are more than welcome to remain here, though I understand if that is less than appealing.”  
  
Grimmjow swallowed around a hard knot in his throat, the taste of a fight tainted with the raw impotence of his power.  
  
The girl had returned carrying a teetering tray of steaming mugs and Urahara took one, thanking her and making her blush. The calmness of it all compared to the torrent inside him made Grimmjow feel displaced, watching his own actions from a distance, a ghost in the room.  
  
“Personally, if you will indulge me, I’m quite eager to understand your fascinating physiology. I rather doubt such an opportunity will present itself again.”  
  
Grimmjow snatched a glass from the trembling girl, throwing it to shatter next to the bastard’s head.  
  
Urahara flicked a shard of porcelain from his cheek. “I _see_...”  
  
“This just a fucking joke to yo—“  
  
His words were lost in an impact that sent him flying through the wall, paper and wood snapping around him. Grimmjow skidded to a stop, thrown from the building; blue sky and bright sun searing his eyes.  
  
He hissed, unconsciously putting pressure on his injured wrist as he stumbled to his feet and angrily brushed a splinter from his hair. “What the _fuck_ —“  
  
“We only have three of that set left,” the girl’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Please don’t break them.”  
  
Ichigo was trying—poorly—to muffle his laughter. It made Grimmjow want to tear his fucking heart out.  
  
He snapped his jaw shut against the air, leaping and letting his sonido take him as far away as he could, not giving a fuck where he was going.  
  
No way, no way in _hell_ did that little girl have that much power. And maybe she didn’t—maybe he was just that weak, neutered by the device in his chest. Reduced to this sniveling thing by that raccoon-eyed fucker and Ichigo.  
  
Grimmjow landed on the high rooftop of a building close to the river, cradling his aching arm for the first time. He sensed for anyone in pursuit but the shinigami’s presence wasn’t there.  
  
Ichigo. That little prick’s self-satisfied smirk made Grimmjow’s rage burst inside him like a frenzied nova. His fingers itched to get around the kid’s throat and just _squeeze_ until the pulse stopped, smiling as he did it. Or keep him alive and chained, powerless and defeated at Grimmjow’s hands.  
  
He liked the taste of that on his tongue. Ichigo probably got off on doing it to him, being so fucking moral and high, but if things were reversed, he’d beg to be put down.  
  
Grimmjow crouched on the rooftop, his useless wrist deadweight at his side and fresh stirrings of hunger returning to his stomach. What the fuck was he going to do now? The smell of humans all around him made him long to gorge himself—knowing he was denied it in this world. He suppressed a shiver as a sick emptiness swept through him.  
  
  
  
  
Left alone and stripped of his powers, Grimmjow set to following Ichigo, dogging his steps and learning his habits. Grimmjow was bored off his nuts in this world and he didn’t much like being routinely hungry again, like falling back into a bad habit. The hollows that emerged from Hueco Mundo were small fry, pathetic and consumed by instinct. They never made much of a dent in his appetite, tasteless like watery tea and a poor substitute when everything else smelled like greasy steak. But he could feel them, better it seemed than the shinigami could, their rippling through the dimensions twinging like a beacon in Grimmjow’s mind.  
  
He searched for other arrancar but their reiatsu was absent; it was as the kid’d said: that last battle when they’d almost taken Soul Society had been the final one, at least for the time being, and Grimmjow ached for it to start up again. His snapped wrist and other injuries healed slowly, another reminder of his fallen status. Grimmjow had never wasted time pondering his untimely demise, but this seemed like a pretty shitty way to go.  
  
Aside from the blind hunger, there was little else to occupy his time. As a rule, the arrancar didn’t require sleep, but Grimmjow had discovered it agreed with him back when he was stuck stir-crazy in Las Noches, leashed and waiting. He returned to it for days at a time, waking to a growling in his gut that lent itself to just the type of mindless rage he didn’t mind indulging in.  
  
Nothing held the same kind of satisfaction as the pursuit of an actual challenge, and tracking Ichigo staved off more of his boredom. Grimmjow respected the distance between them when the kid was in human form, uninteresting except for the value of knowing his enemy. Pathetic as ever at sensing reiatsu, Ichigo never noticed his presence or if he did, never showed it.  
  
Grimmjow hoped Ichigo could feel him stalking behind like a ravenous shadow. He hoped it sent a fucking shiver straight through the kid’s fucking spine.  
  
It disgusted Grimmjow how easy it was for the brat to reassimiliate into his human life. Ichigo had his own apartment like a human (Grimmjow had been in it, and hoped the fucker could smell him when he got back). He went to a university like a human, wasted his life on human _friends_ —Grimmjow recognized some of them; the healing girl walked with him in the mornings and afternoons, her red hair shining and face smiling. The female shinigami showed herself now and then, always in a fake body.  
  
Grimmjow could remember the feel of her guts wet on his hand and it made his mouth water.  
  
He wanted to tear all of the _humanity_ right out of Ichigo’s life, leaving him alone and naked as Grimmjow was. He and Ichigo were both made for one thing: the fight and the kill, and Grimmjow despised him for being able to live without it. True to his word, Ichigo didn’t pursue him or seem to even keep an active watch over Grimmjow; he couldn’t decide whether the kid was just fucking _stupid_ or if he honestly didn’t consider Grimmjow to be any real threat.  
  
The latter idea pissed him off worse; as though Ichigo could dismiss him so easily. He’d bide his time for now, feeling out the edges of the power he still had—Grimmjow had once released too much and sure enough, whatever leash that shop keeper’d fitted him with reared up inside until it felt like his bones were splintering apart.  
  
Ichigo could keep him locked away, stirring Grimmjow to madness by simply ignoring him but it wouldn’t last. Nothing made his bone-deep excitement race more than all the ways Grimmjow could think of to show the little shit just how wrong he was.  
  
  
  
  
Renji came to the real world occasionally, keeping up a regular sparring match with Chad and sometimes Ichigo himself. Ichigo never needed to say as much, but he knew the lack of a clear enemy wore against them all. They each shared a fear of their abilities dulling. Ichigo welcomed any excuses to visit the Urahara Shoten, the feeling of it nostalgic. He knew he shouldn’t long for the fight as much as he did, but could never shake thinking that what they had was brief, a momentary calming.  
  
He felt a distinct sense of disconnection with the living world now. Ichigo imagined it would be difficult not to. The summer classes he attended with Inoue—they were both so far behind their classmates—were tedious, his mind drifting during them, longing to receive an order and relieve his boredom.  
  
His life as a shinigami shouldn’t have been the one that he missed.  
  
Through it all, Grimmjow’s presence weighed on his mind—skulking behind Ichigo and sometimes drifting to the periphery of his ability to sense the other’s presence. Ichigo knew Soul Society would never be as forgiving towards the arrancar if they knew he still lived; humans with reiryoku like himself and the others were tolerated, even used, but the arrancar would always be an abomination.  
  
They would destroy Grimmjow if they knew. And Ichigo, in his conscience, couldn’t do the same. He held no naïve reservations of redeeming the other man (the idea made his inner hollow presence snigger gleefully) but he couldn’t deny what Grimmjow had been during the war—an unlikely, untrusted ally. Chaotic and wild, Grimmjow’s actions were motivated solely by his determined obsession with Ichigo until they either defeated or destroyed one another.  
  
If he turned against them now…ultimately, Ichigo couldn’t imagine things unfolding any other way. It would be as Urahara had said: they would end him, simply and finally. Ichigo wasn’t a murderer but if Grimmjow gave him enough provocation, he would do it and his conscience might finally be clear.  
  
He was drinking tea on the porch of the Urahara Shoten with Renji, cooling from a fight and enjoying one of the first long evenings of summer when Grimmjow stalked by, snorting at them both in unveiled disgust.  
  
“Where the hell’re you going?” Renji growled.  
  
“I’m hungry so fuck off!”  
  
“Something came through, didn’t it?” Ichigo asked, staring down Grimmjow’s narrowed blue eyes. Ichigo had realized that the arrancar must be able to sense them. The arrancar claimed his targets often enough whenever Ichigo received orders from Seireitei, the stolen kills adding to his restlessness.  
  
Grimmjow’s nostrils flared and Ichigo could see the internal deliberation between chasing after whatever’d just crossed over or jumping them both and giving fuck-all to the consequences.  
  
Grimmjow seemed to reach a decision with a snap of his jaws, “Hn, this little thing’ll barely take the edge off. Find me later, shinigami, I wanna real fight. I’m so hungry to jack you up I won’t even taste this one.”  
  
His eyes were eager and excited, locked on Ichigo as he disappeared in static ripple.  
  
Renji grunted in annoyance.  
  
“That’s fucking creepy,” he said, gulping his tea and glaring at the spot where Grimmjow had been. “He’s like a damn vampire or something.”  
  
“Mm. More like a cannibal.”  
  
“Doesn’t make it any less fucking creepy. Why do you even keep that thing around?”  
  
Ichigo scowled at that. “I’m not going to just kill him. Not until he does something to deserve it.”  
  
“Shit, what hasn’t he done?” Renji snorted, shrugging. “I’d do it, be easier. Like a feral animal. That thing’s like he’s got rabies; you’re going to end up with his jaws around your neck before you know it.”  
  
Ichigo didn’t say as much, but he agreed. It would be easier.  
  
  
  
  
He did find Grimmjow later, or rather, Grimmjow found him.  
  
Just finishing a soul burial and off his guard, the approaching reiatsu was like thunder rushing in his mind before Grimmjow caught him with a bare-fisted strike that sent Ichigo scattering back. He slammed into the ground, rolling and unbalanced before catching himself, elbows scraped and bleeding and his shoulder aching from the impact.  
  
“That one was mine, shinigami, and you know just how bad it pisses me off when somebody steals shit from me. Guess I gotta take it outta you instead.”  
  
Ichigo felt his heart leap at the thought of a good fight, to knock Grimmjow back a bit and wipe the cocky smile off his face. The lure of a match to stir up the fighter’s high he missed from the war was too much to contain. He knew this confrontation was inevitable and was ready for it.  
  
“Hn, like to see you try. You must enjoy getting beaten.”  
  
Grimmjow roared with laughter so hard he seemed breathless, still giggling while Ichigo glared daggers at him.  
  
“Cute, real cute, y’know that? It’s like you think you’ve won,” Grimmjow simpered, head cocked to the side and grin still full on his face.  
  
“Maybe because I _did_ , you dumbfuck. You’re only hurting yourself if you can’t admit it.”  
  
“Rather be hurting you; you always did suffer so pretty.”  
  
Ichigo bristled, crossing his arms and throwing Grimmjow an expression of pure contempt. “Beats throwing a violent temper tantrum. I’m honestly surprised you haven’t picked a fight sooner; you’re so fucking predictable it’s starting to bore me.”  
  
“Can’t have that, now can we?” Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed a moment before he lunged; two static snaps all it took for him to close the distance between them. His fist sliced the air and barely missed Ichigo’s face. “Y’know the one thing that keeps me going right now?”  
  
“You think I give a shit?”  
  
“Just imagining all the things I’m gonna do once you stop taking me serious,” Grimmjow said, like they were having a nice little chat over tea, not even blinking when Zangetsu bounced off his steel skin. “I’ll cut off your legs and make you crawl. Break your ribs and watch you choke on your own blood. Payback’s a bitch and listening to you scream and beg’ll be the sweetest thing I ever heard.”  
  
“How fucking original,” Ichigo spat, breaking through the hierro to score a shallow gash over Grimmjow’s stomach. “It’s never going to happen, asshole—you _lost_. Try to wrap your brain around it.”  
  
“You’re forgetting it was Ulquiorra that took me down, you just cleaned up the mess. We both know you ain’t got it in you to do it yourself.”  
  
Grimmjow snatched his blade, jerking it out of the way for a clear shot at Ichigo’s chest and slamming the air from his lungs with a sharp kick. Unable to stop himself, Ichigo careened into a building and felt the walls crumble around him. Tumbling weightless, he caught a wide swing at his face as Grimmjow crashed into him, both of them dragged down in a tangle of limbs as chips of concrete rained on them like mortar.  
  
They rolled ensnared, Ichigo landing on top and crushing Grimmjow’s sternum with his knee. The arrancar wheezed but surged off his back, clenching a hand around Ichigo’s throat. His fingers tightened like a steel cage, forcing Ichigo back and lifting him by his neck as blood pounded painfully in his head.  
  
“Gotcha,” Grimmjow smiled, serrated and insane.  
  
Ichigo kicked him but the arrancar didn’t release his hold, only lifting him higher by the choking grip on his throat.  
  
“This is sad, shinigami; real, real sad. I been looking forward to fighting you all this time and you can’t even lay a sword on me!”  
  
Ichigo’s retort came out as a pitiful whisper, breath dying on his lips. It only drew a wider, more excited grin from the arrancar as his limbs thrashed helplessly. He swiped his zanpakuto blindly and it tore into Grimmjow’s arm.  
  
“That more what you were hoping for?” Ichigo gagged, staggering away as he was released. His voice sounded coarse as it scratched out of his throat.  
  
It took him a moment to realize that Grimmjow, bent and clutching his wound as it poured black blood, was laughing—a bubbling giggle ground out between clenched teeth, harsh as metal scraping against stone. “You should’ve taken my fucking arm off, Kurosaki, and you’re gonna wish you had.”  
  
Grimmjow leapt at him, weaving side-to-side with quick jumps through the air, getting in close to grapple and Ichigo wedged his sword between them. He aimed for Grimmjow’s long fingers and snarled himself as the arrancar skidded to an abrupt stop.  
  
Grimmjow’s jaw ticked before spreading into a malevolent grin. “Something just came through. Something _big_.”  
  
Ichigo was momentarily stunned. “What—where?”  
  
“Beat you to this one, you little fuck!” And Grimmjow clocked him right in the side of the head before shooting into the air.  
  
Ichigo matched his sonido, still reeling. Of course it was just a game to the madman, but Ichigo couldn’t seem to stop himself from playing along, like crashing headlong down a slope.  
  
The hollows Grimmjow led them to weren’t so much _big_ as _many_ , enough for both of them. It felt good, his humiliation ebbing as Ichigo cut them down. Amongst his own kills, he watched Grimmjow stab a fist through one, its form disintegrating into flowing reishi that assimilated into his bare skin.  
  
Between the two of them it didn’t take long. Grimmjow danced in place, throwing punches in the air like a shadow boxer with nothing left to fight. Ichigo kept himself ready, waiting for their previous fight to continue but Grimmjow’s quicksilver mind seemed to have already shrugged it aside.  
  
He leered at Ichigo. “Fuck, that gets me hard!”  
  
“You’re disgusting.” Ichigo rolled his eyes as he turned away.  
  
Then Grimmjow was behind him, one long arm looping around Ichigo’s neck to pin their bodies together. Ichigo’s pulse leapt painfully, slamming against the bare skin pressed to his throat. He bucked against the grip, cursing himself for being stupid enough to turn his back.  
  
“Hn, yeah, I am disgusting.” Grimmjow’s breath was hot and he could feel the arrancar’s erection stiff against his back—and unbelievably, Ichigo felt his own dick stir in response. Either from the fight or the sudden contact; he squirmed against Grimmjow’s hold, blood racing until he was dizzy.  
  
“Think I’ll go rub a nice one out after this. Sound good to you, huh? Bet you’re just as fucking _disgusting_ as I am.”  
  
His hand shot to the waist of Ichigo’s hakama, groping for his cock and barking out a triumphant laugh when his fingers brushed against it. Ichigo slammed an elbow into Grimmjow’s ribs to send him springing out of reach.  
  
“Don’t fucking touch me, you goddamn prick!” he bit out, stinging embarrassment and injured pride coloring his cheeks.  
  
Grimmjow cackled hoarsely, clutching his side. “Fighting you always gets me hard, shinigami. Let’s do it again sometime.”  
  
And then he was gone, his reiatsu receding as Grimmjow set off to find more prey or, as he’d said, some place to jerk off.  
  
Thinking of it made an unwelcome heat rush through Ichigo, accompanied by the sudden mental image of long, pale fingers sliding over straining flesh. Blue hair and teeth bared in a jagged smile was all it took to get Ichigo’s dick at full attention, a small, honest part of his brain wondering when exactly he’d be able to get back to his own place. He felt suddenly and acutely stupid, cock hard and his brain still spinning from trying to follow Grimmjow’s deranged train of thought.  
  
Ichigo sighed heavily, disgusted with himself and aching from their fight in more ways than one. Shit.  
  
  
  
  
They fought more frequently after that.  
  
Ichigo received orders from Soul Society and more often than not found Grimmjow at the coordinates already, always with a taunting word for how slow he was. Almost unbidden, the arrancar’s reiatsu burned brighter in the back of his mind, stalking behind him while in his human form. It made Ichigo edgy and irritable for the unprovoked attacks that never came.  
  
He was fighting a hollow, delivering the killing blow and ready for any others when something hit him from behind. He turned, growling and swinging his zanpakuto to find Grimmjow, back to back with him and grinning over his shoulder.  
  
Ichigo slowed his swing as he spun around, but Grimmjow snatched his wrist and jerked them together.  
  
“Finish that, if you think you can.”  
  
It made Ichigo smile in response. “Hn, guess who’s late this time.”  
  
Grimmjow threw his head back in a bray of laughter, the broken fragments of his mask open wide. “You just never showed up! I can’t stop thinking ‘bout anything but how bad I wanna beat your skinny ass. Try not to make it so easy for me this time.”  
  
It left both of them aching and exhausted. Ichigo felt more alive fighting Grimmjow than he had since the war had ended, eager for the next. He returned home in the early mornings, hot water pounding the soreness from his muscles while he stroked himself to completion, wild laughter in his ears as he came.  
  
He was left bracing against the shower wall and gasping, the sound of water drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. Ichigo waited for shame to burn through him but it never came.  
  
What was the arrancar, other than a royal pain in the ass? Ichigo knew he had to be a fucking idiot to even consider Grimmjow as anything else. But it was an easy habit to slide into, ignoring the danger when it was accompanied with such a thrill, like playing with knives: Grimmjow could deliver a death as vicious as it was beautiful and, disturbingly, Ichigo found himself captivated. Whether it was the hollow darkness within him that was drawn to it or simply an appreciation for equal skill—Ichigo could deny the source of the attraction but not that it existed.  
  
On some subconscious level, he’d recognized the same reaction in how the arrancar’s eyes followed him during a hunt, or the way he haunted Ichigo during the days—Grimmjow viewed him as a particularly tempting cut of meat he was just itching to devour. In those moments, Ichigo could feel his own pride snapping to attention to match the other man’s arrogance, the unwanted attraction turning into just another battle between them. Ichigo knew he was toying with something foolishly dangerous but couldn’t force himself to back off even when he knew he should. The worst part was he could tell he was becoming more and more comfortable all the time; it was dizzying and awful and Ichigo was driving himself crazy with it.  
  
He cursed, shivering under hot water. Pissed at himself because he wouldn’t put a stop to things before they got out of hand. Pissed because he was the only person who could. Knowing just exactly what a fucking bad idea it was and wanting it that much more.  
  
“This is so fucked up.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Something had changed and Grimmjow couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.  
  
Back when he’d had full command of his powers, he’d always been the one in pursuit of the shinigami, hunter’s instinct refusing to let his prey escape. With his reiryoku all but amputated and killing less of a possibility, Grimmjow was left with the single option of fucking the kid up any chance he got. It wasn’t that he didn’t relish the simple pleasure, but it stung like bitter poison that he couldn’t do more.  
  
He knew when Ichigo held back in a fight and though he hated it, Grimmjow understood in a way: it was an empty victory at best to defeat a crippled opponent. Problem was, when you went to all the trouble doing the crippling, there wasn’t much point in not following through. Ichigo could put on his little hero’s face and call it _mercy_ , call it anything he liked—Grimmjow called it cruel, and he’d be damned if he would do the same were their places reversed. For as similarly single-minded as they were in a fight, Ichigo’s idea of honor didn’t quite match up to his own.  
  
He added it to the smoldering, mile-long list of wrongs committed against him.  
  
Despite the shitty fucking hand the universe had dealt him, Grimmjow managed to remain an optimist because if he knew one truth in the world, it was that this couldn’t go on forever. The same _human fucking pity_ that’d never let Ichigo kill him would come back to bite the shinigami in the ass; Grimmjow would make sure of it.  
  
It tightened something in his stomach because he could think of nothing better than the sound Ichigo’s noble little bones would make, crushed under his foot once he was free.  
  
It was just a waiting game until then, and Grimmjow hated waiting. With exactly jack-for-fuck-all- _shit_ to do otherwise, he busted the kid up as often as he could. Ichigo was such an easy mark; nothing was more fucking enjoyable than simply getting under his skin and taunting him until his ears turned pink. A good fight at the end of a long chase had always been Grimmjow’s favorite, but working the other man up until he was reckless was almost better. Grimmjow wanted to push him so far he’d lose all that careful control, turning into something monstrous and deadly, something that Ichigo would just _hate_ himself for.  
  
The shinigami stubbornly refused him the pleasure, but Grimmjow welcomed the challenge. He wanted to be the wound Ichigo would never heal because he’d never quit picking at it.  
  
He woke from a nap one afternoon, hot and sticky, his shade having moved away hours before and his prick hard and aching between his legs. Memories of a particularly nice dream flickered behind his eyelids: Ichigo supplicant before him, Ichigo’s bared flesh, his taste and smell in Grimmjow’s mouth and nose. The sense-memory of the shinigami’s blood, scalding and vital and drawn up from a mortal wound—Grimmjow hissed, spilling himself in only a few hard strokes with the image of Ichigo under him, his mouth open and gasping as Grimmjow fucked him like he was killing him.  
  
He didn’t spend much thought on it at the time, feeling muzzy-headed and high and all-around content to just bask in self-gratification like the first warm sun after a long winter. And maybe it was just that simple: though he was no stranger to visceral lust—he had a dick, and once he’d been given human form Grimmjow got real acquainted with it and all its fun tricks—but there really was no comparison between sex and a fight to the kill. The instincts built up as a hollow weren’t easily shirked and there wasn’t much point in fucking things you could be eating.  
  
But hunger was just hunger now, without the threat of regression and he could indulge in all those interesting things he’d left previously ignored. If he thought about it, he realized Ichigo had brought out the same reaction in the past: sex and violence as weapons and ending in something perverse; the only thing better than beating Ichigo would be to destroy him. Trapped as he was, Grimmjow didn’t mind indulging the thought more often until he was so wrapped up in it that he didn’t want to go back. And that was just the trouble—how much he _wanted_.  
  
It was a pain in the ass in the middle of a fight, because instead of working on wiping the floor with the brat, Grimmjow found himself preoccupied landing blows on exposed skin and getting in close enough to scent the shinigami while they grappled. Grimmjow couldn’t tell if the change went unnoticed or not, but then again, he’d been getting right up into Ichigo’s personal space ever since they first crossed paths.  
  
Maybe it was that frustration, along with the disgustingly muggy days that left him feeling tight in his own skin. It drove him after Ichigo even more doggedly than ever. Starved and pissed and too restless to sleep, he came upon Ichigo one morning while the shinigami was killing hollows near the riverfront. Grimmjow watched him unseen; Ichigo’s kosode was bared to his abdomen, skin shining with sweat to draw an answering heat in Grimmjow’s belly. It brought back what he’d imagined so often before: Ichigo’s whipcord body stretched out naked and straining, bending taut as a bowstring with only Grimmjow to release him.  
  
Ichigo chased after a last hollow as it fled into the dimness of an empty building, too preoccupied to register his presence. Grimmjow followed at his own pace and the hollow was turning to dust at Ichigo’s feet as his eyes adjusted to the shade.  
  
“Still up for more I hope,” he drawled, smiling as Ichigo’s shoulders visibly tensed.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Ah c’mon, don’t be like that!” Grimmjow cocked his head to the side and grinned, feeling Ichigo’s annoyance rise even further. “You were having so much fun a minute ago.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘til you showed up,” Ichigo snorted, mopping his hairline with the edge of his hand. Grimmjow wondered just how slippery that skin would feel against his own.  
  
“You’re breaking my heart.”  
  
“You don’t have one.”  
  
“Would it matter if I did?”  
  
Ichigo’s brows were pinching into the peeved little folds he got when Grimmjow hit a nerve. It reminded him of the hackles on a tiny, yapping dog because there wasn’t much else it could do but look big and make noise.  
  
He stalked closer, puffs of dust rising at his feet. “Quit making it sound like you don’t enjoy my company, we both know it’s a fucking lie.”  
  
“You’re such an arrogant prick, Grimmjow.” Ichigo shook his head. “You tell yourself all sorts of lies, doesn’t make them true.”  
  
“Sure it does. You’re just so slow you haven’t caught on to ‘em yet.” There was something deeply satisfying about getting close enough into Ichigo’s space that little shit had to tip his head back to meet Grimmjow’s eyes.  
  
“Let’s have a game, yeah? You try to show me how wrong I am and fail miserably.” He flicked a nonexistent speck off Ichigo’s uniformed collar and got his hand slapped away.  
  
Ichigo rested his zanpakuto on one shoulder, light from the outside making his teeth shine sharp and white and bared in a smile. “I think I’m a little too old to play with toys, especially the kind with only one trick to them.”  
  
“Heh.” Now if that wasn’t a challenge, Grimmjow didn’t know what fucking was, like dangling meat over a pit of tigers. So he sucker-punched the little fucker right in his fucking mouth, wiping the smile off and splitting his lip.  
  
“What the fuck?” Ichigo spat, smearing red across his chin with a sleeve.  
  
“Aw, you forget who you’re _playing_ with?” Grimmjow sneered. “I like watching you bleed.”  
  
Just like that, all of it came rushing up like a torrent in his non-existent gut. He wanted to taste the kid’s blood now that he’d spilled it, from his reddened mouth or from his open throat if Grimmjow could get at it.  
  
Ichigo lunged for him and Grimmjow snatched his sword arm, dragging him off-balance and chasing after his mouth with his own. It opened under his in shock— _Not expecting that, were you, fucker?_ , his tongue wanted to say, were it not already occupied in tasting everything it could get at. Ichigo’s blood was sharp, tongue moving against Grimmjow’s own for a slippery moment before Ichigo bit down, their flavors mingling and shit, Grimmjow was hard now—unfortunate, as Ichigo’s knee knifed between them to slam into his dick.  
  
Grimmjow yelped and jumped away, landing in a protective crouch and gritting his teeth around the stolen taste. “ _Ow_ , you _fuck_ —“ he snarled as Ichigo sprang at him, an angry flush pinking his cheeks as he caught the hilt of his zanpakuto against Grimmjow’s head in a sharp cuff. Insult to injury, and then more injury on top of that; the abbreviated story of his fucking life.  
  
Then Ichigo’s fingers were snagged in his hair, yanking his head back—“Ask first, you shithead!” Ichigo snapped, and then he was kissing him, lips hard and demanding.  
  
Grimmjow’s brain stalled for a moment, leaving him gaping like a fish before he surged against Ichigo, growling into his mouth and sucking on his tongue. Ichigo’s hands were strangely cool as they clutched against his bare skin, over his stomach and hips. The smell of his lust was heady and feverish and wholly unexpected; Grimmjow could feel his own winding against it like a tightening wire.  
  
There was a distinct ring of metal as Ichigo’s sword fell behind them, dropped to leave both hands free, roaming and busy. _That_ got Grimmjow’s attention real goddamn fast, not that the kid even noticed. The loss of immediate control was foolish and reckless and though it wasn’t a surrender, Grimmjow knew that he could take just _so much_ with hands and mouth to feel Ichigo tense and gasp against him. He wanted to tear through those layers of cloth, stripping Ichigo bare and spreading him open—Grimmjow’s cock thrusting inside like he was stabbing him.  
  
“Ask, huh?” Grimmjow nipped along his jaw to pull at an earlobe. “Wanna fuck, then?”  
  
Ichigo made a sound, something like “mnngh,” forced out from where his mouth was attacking Grimmjow’s adam’s apple and that was about as much of a yes as he needed with the kid’s hands sweeping over him like they were.  
  
Their mouths were brought together by Ichigo’s fingers scrabbling along the ridges of his mask and Grimmjow used one sharp canine to worry at his split lower lip, feeling Ichigo tremble like a tuning fork. His skin was so very _hot_ against Grimmjow’s chest as he held them together with a hand swept under Ichigo’s clothing and braced against his sweat-slicked spine.  
  
He bore the brat against him and down until they hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. Ichigo’s body arched, hissing “ _fuck_ ”—a gasping sound that bared his throat and Grimmjow went after it, fluttering pulse burning naked under his mouth. With his teeth at the vein, he knew he could break Ichigo easily and taste him raw as he poured out—something that didn’t go unnoticed as Ichigo made a thin, hitching breath. It shivered against Grimmjow’s tongue, a small, involuntary panic before the kid’s hips drove up, grinding himself against one of Grimmjow’s trapped legs, shameless.  
  
Grimmjow groaned at that, everything about the shinigami just _so fucking needy_ it was indecent. He wanted to know just how much more he could get when so much was given up already, the beat of Ichigo’s blood thumping against his palms as they slid over the tight skin of his stomach. Those same hard muscles leapt and knit against Grimmjow’s mouth as he traveled down, all the shinigami’s tethered strength coiling under his touch.  
  
The kid had a hard on like a rock digging into Grimmjow’s thigh and he wedged his own against Ichigo’s sharp hip, the contact making him moan as he rested his forehead against Ichigo’s collarbone. The other man’s hands strayed blindly down and into the emptiness of his stomach, trailing along the edge like a morbid curiosity. It dragged a shiver out of Ichigo that Grimmjow could feel build at his spine and travel its length.  
  
“Shit,” Ichigo hissed. “ _Ah_ —shit, how is that even possible?”  
  
And holy _fuck_ did Grimmjow’s cock jump at the sound of his voice like that, rasping and breathy. One hand shot to the edge of Ichigo’s black hakama, tearing the sash away and pulling its hem over the carved-out angle of his hipbone, their bodies still locked tightly together.  
  
“Oh fuck, let me touch you,” he said, hand sliding over the bare skin of his ass, wanting to taste and touch and get _inside_. “I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget your name—“  
  
And just as fast, Ichigo’s fingers were around his wrist like iron, dragging him away. Grimmjow snarled, barely able react as Ichigo lurched upwards, fisting a hand in his jacket collar and pushing him back violently. Ichigo’s eyes were hard and narrowed, voice ground out through bared teeth, “We’re—not—fucking.”  
  
Grimmjow tried to jerk his wrist out of the bruising grip, so pissed off he could put a fist straight through the Ichigo’s guts and not even feel regret afterward. His lip curled, “If we’re not fucking then what the _fuck_ do you call this, princess?”  
  
“Not this time, jackass!” Ichigo snapped, his lips thinned angrily. And fuck, did he look good in that moment, almost like he was coming undone, kosode pulled off one shoulder leaving an arm bare—skin Grimmjow wanted to spoil.  
  
Grimmjow’s teeth clenched, unable to stop a low growl from coming out along with his voice. “You little shit. Is this how you get off, huh? Fucking cocktease.”  
  
“You can go fuck yourself instead if that’s such a fucking problem,” Ichigo said, words bitten out hard enough that they ghosted across Grimmjow’s face, distracting. He had Ichigo practically in his lap—not a bad position to be in, really—and Grimmjow darted forward, tonguing coppery sweat off Ichigo’s chin and making his breath catch.  
  
With one hand still free, Grimmjow wondered what Ichigo would do if he didn’t listen. He could close his fingers around Ichigo’s throat, turn him over and have everything he wanted just that easily. Grimmjow knew he’d enjoy doing it. It would be the final victory between them, one he would win because Ichigo would never have the balls to do the same.  
  
But he also knew it would be the last time it ever happened; Ichigo would kill him for it. It would be the only time to see Ichigo as he was now, reckless and hungry—smelling like sex and just fucking _desperate_. Grimmjow knew he wanted that more than anything, again and again until everything the little fuck had was given up. He wanted to drive Ichigo right out of his fucking mind, take the time to just pull the little bastard apart and listen to his voice go hoarse as he begged for more.  
  
Ichigo shifted against him, cock still poking into his thigh and Grimmjow had to close his eyes hard to keep them from rolling in his head, a breath hissing between his teeth.  
  
“Either let me up, or stop wasting my fucking time.” Ichigo released his wrist with an abrupt jerk, dropping his hand graze a thumbnail over the edge of his empty stomach.  
  
Grimmjow snapped his eyes open and shoved Ichigo, spilling him hard on his back.  
  
“ _Goddamn_ , you fucking piss me off.” Grimmjow pinned him with a hand splayed against his chest, Ichigo’s heart beating a rapid staccato rhythm against his palm. “There are better times to tell a guy that and right now is—no _fucking_ shit!—not one of them!”  
  
Ichigo’s jaw twitched irritably. “We didn’t exactly have much time to talk about this, did we?”  
  
“You wanna fucking _talk_ about it? What the fuck’s _wrong_ with you?”  
  
“Get off of me, this was a mistake!” Ichigo’s voice was an incensed snarl as he squirmed away, tangling in his uniform.  
  
Grimmjow didn’t let him get far, snaking between Ichigo’s legs and palming his cock through his hakama. Ichigo stiffened, raised up on his elbows and glaring, his breath coming in sharp little pants. The purpled ring of a bruise was starting to show on his throat; Grimmjow wanted to make it worse.  
  
“Thanks for the fucking mood kill, but I’m not finished with you yet!”  
  
“Go jerk off, you prick!” Ichigo punched his temple and the blow landed with a dull thud, thrown at an awkward angle.  
  
Grimmjow caught his arm before Ichigo could wind up anything else, crushing their mouths together and swallowing the rest of his angry words. Their teeth met with a hard clack and he could taste the edge of fear on the brat’s tongue; scared maybe, but it was always better when he took Grimmjow seriously. With the loose fabric of his shihakushou pooled around him, Ichigo looked like he was coming apart and Grimmjow wanted to make sure that he did.  
  
His hands slid to Ichigo’s narrow waist, feeling him tense and hissing against his mouth, “I’ll jerk myself off later thinking about how fucking hard you came for me, you little shit.”  
  
He mouthed down Ichigo’s abdomen, earning a bitten-off gasp as his tongue flicked into the dip of Ichigo’s navel, dragging his hakama off and licking up the side of his cock. It drew an abortive little stutter from the shinigami’s hips as Grimmjow held them tightly, swallowing Ichigo down, the jagged curve of his mask scraping against one quivering thigh.  
  
Ichigo made a shocked sort of sound as Grimmjow took him, somewhere between a gasp and moan and going straight to Grimmjow’s own dick, hard and ignored. With no friction to be had and unwilling to let go, he just gripped Ichigo tighter, tonguing the underside of his cock and making him shiver like an overwound watch. All Grimmjow could think of was _how fucking good_ it would be if he were inside, fucking Ichigo while he moved like he was—like breaking him to pieces, careful control stripped away to leave him utterly naked. Ichigo’s breath was ragged as though each one was dragged from the bottom of his lungs and Grimmjow watched his head tip back, strong jaw clenched and spine bending. It wasn’t going to take much to set him off, twisted as tight as Ichigo was, and it would be Grimmjow’s hands and mouth that did it.  
  
He slid a hand under Ichigo’s arching back, fingers trailing over the base of his spine and into the cleft of his ass. Ichigo made a choked sound at that, almost something with words and Grimmjow could feel the muscles tightening all through his body. Fingers curled in his blue hair, clumsy and convulsive as though Ichigo’d lost his use of them, everything given up until his body went rigid in a single long moment. Ichigo’s release was a warm-bitter rush against the back of his tongue like something torn from deep inside him.  
  
Grimmjow’s hand was wrapped around his own dick so fast it almost hurt, surging over Ichigo to lean the length of his body. Sweat itched along his back as his mouth grazed against anything within reach until Ichigo drew their mouths together, hands still knotted in his hair. Grimmjow was sure he still had the taste of the other man’s come in his mouth, but Ichigo didn’t seem to care.  
  
Then Ichigo’s leg was looped around him and Grimmjow found himself flipped on his back, straddled as his head thumped solidly against the paved ground.  
  
“Fuck!” He pitched against Ichigo before cool fingers circled his cock, driving his hips bucking up. Ichigo’s body draped over him, mouth sucked greedily at the juncture of Grimmjow’s neck and shoulder, almost biting. Grimmjow shuddered, moaning; he could be as wanton a whore in moments like these, cock thrusting to meet Ichigo’s hands with a quick snap of his hips.  
  
He tried to say something—“there, ah— _harder_ —“ but it got carried off into some incomprehensible _sound_ as Ichigo did exactly what he wanted. Grimmjow could feel his climax building where his stomach should’ve been, choking on his own tongue as one nimble finger slid over the slit in his dick. It teased at his foreskin and that was all it took for Ichigo to get him coming, dirtying that pretty little hand even as it continued to move against him.  
  
White noise danced under Grimmjow’s eyelids but he couldn’t bring himself to open them. The kid’s breath was loud in his ear and he pushed Ichigo away, their skin sticking together where it touched. Grimmjow’s jacket was plastered against his back, making him feel suddenly and acutely damp. He frowned. “Get off.”  
  
“Gimme a minute, I just did.” Ichigo’s voice had a lilting, slap-happy edge to it. And then he was kissing Grimmjow, slow and languid, tongue making deep strokes in his mouth. It was unexpected but not altogether bad, and Ichigo gave a small, contented murmur; the sound of a cat sighing in its sleep.  
  
His knees were spread over him, body a solid weight across Grimmjow’s hips and thighs bared by his tangled, loose hakama. Grimmjow drew his pliant form closer, hands on Ichigo’s naked hips and he seemed to melt, unresisting. Fuck, Grimmjow could feel himself getting ready to go again, in a low, lazy way; Ichigo’s fingers in his hair and against his scalp making him sleepy and sated. The kid would just not stop kissing him, like he was breathing through Grimmjow’s mouth, lips and tongue perfectly happy in mounting an internal exploration of parts unknown.  
  
Grimmjow rolled them, landing Ichigo on his back so his limbs flopped limp as a ragdoll’s. Ichigo’s eyes were closed with the beginnings of a supremely shit-eating grin showing at the corners of his bruised mouth. “I want,” Ichigo started, and Grimmjow watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Let’s do that again.”  
  
He spread a hand over Ichigo’s flat stomach. “Buy me a drink, asshole. You only get the first one free.”  
  
_Again_ was a nice word. Even nicer when it was coming out of Ichigo while he looked almost boneless—debauched and taken. And Grimmjow’d been the one to do it; it made a little shiver of excitement start up his stomach that turned rapidly into a strange, nauseated flutter. The feeling only climbed higher when Grimmjow tried to suppress it, clenching his jaw hard as it flooded his chest until he couldn’t breathe.  
  
He tucked himself back into his pants, staggering to his feet abruptly and that was a mistake as he swayed on unsteady legs. Sickness inside him and nothing to vomit out—Grimmjow had never lost his guts in his life and now that damn kid had him clenching his throat around bile.  
  
“You okay?” Ichigo had noticed, sitting up and _goddamn_ —half naked with his dick still out, reddening marks forming on his skin—just looking at Ichigo made him want so much it was like he’d been knocked flat on his ass. He could fuck the kid all over again and it wouldn’t be enough. A sudden inexplicable panic clawed up his chest; a need to run, fast, anywhere else but where he was.  
  
Ichigo was watching at him with a face so full of concern that more than anything, it made Grimmjow want to kill him.  
  
“Piss off!” he ground out, leaping through a gap in the ceiling and skipping over rooftops, anything to get further away.  
  
He ended up on the other side of town, Ichigo’s reiatsu flickering like a candle seen from a distance. Grimmjow sank to his knees, shivering under a cold sweat and wondering what the fuck the kid’d done to him to shake him up so bad.  
  
  
  
It wouldn’t leave him, the urge to run, to just _get the fuck away_. Grimmjow hated it and hated that he couldn’t figure out where was coming from even more. Most of all, he hated Kurosaki fucking Ichigo because every time the brat’s reiatsu pulsed or drew near his own, his senses jerked to full attention like little slivers of metal drawn to a magnet. Brought with it was a rush of panic like a rising tide; something in Grimmjow’s primitive hindbrain was set just fucking _screaming_.  
  
He tried to sweat it out like a fever, baking naked under the sun until his skin itched. It didn’t help. His subconscious was stuck on a broken loop of the dirtiest, most profane film it could come up with—which was pretty fucking bad, or good; Grimmjow truthfully hadn’t decided. He hadn’t jumped the kid for a fight or anything else since the last time, unreasonably paranoid that he was seeing the future while he slept: fights that were brutal and vicious, meant to leave the other man bleeding and shattered on the ground. And then, like the spoils of war, Grimmjow could just take and take and _take_.  
  
Problem was—and he liked to blame it on waking up in a sex-stupid high—in Grimmjow’s mind, he wasn’t quite winning each of those fights. _That_ scared the shit out of him, but when losing turned out just as good as winning it really scared the shit out of him. Because what _would_ the shinigami do in that same situation? Grimmjow really wanted to know; he imagined himself beaten, shoved up against something hard with Ichigo behind him, cock filling him up just like he fucking _belonged_ there…Grimmjow wasn’t too proud not to beat off with that playing in his mind, but it seemed like a very personal betrayal by his libido, payback for having been ignored so long.  
  
When he managed to shake his head loose of the warm, muddled glow of a dream filled with teeth-achingly _good_ sex, he was left just fucking _pissed_ that his brain was so easily hijacked. The biggest bitch of them all was that he couldn’t take it out on anyone else; Grimmjow was pretty sure he didn’t even _want_ anyone else. Especially when Ichigo’d proven just how one-hundred-fucking-percent willing he was to help Grimmjow out with this little problem.  
  
The one thing that’d made this power-crippled farce of an existence worth anything was that he could still pound the kid in a fight once in a while, and now he couldn’t even do that. His _dick_ —and dragging along with it, his brain—was suddenly a lot happier on the idea of keeping the little shit alive and in one piece, if only so Grimmjow could do depraved things to him instead.  
  
Life, he realized, was generally unfair. He’d hoped that in sating the urge it would pass, like tearing off an itchy scab. Now it was just exposed and bleeding, demanding his attention.  
  
Grimmjow tamped it all down as though he were filling the void in himself, burying it deep and paving over with boulders. This was a weakness he hadn’t seen as such before, something that would leave him not only captive but subservient to the architect of his problems. He’d slit his own throat before that happened; he’d slit Ichigo’s if the fucker gave him the chance.  
  
  
  
  
The summer dragged on, taking with it the last of Ichigo’s frayed nerves.  
  
Ever since they’d had sex, Grimmjow had been conspicuously absent. Ichigo half expected it for the first week—it fit the arrancar’s typical pig behavior—but when things extended to the following week and then the third, his mental state was well and firmly shot.  
  
It led Ichigo to operate under a level of low-grade animosity towards just about everything. Irritable and restless, he barely paid attention in class to the point that even Inoue noticed. When she asked, he just shrugged, passing it off to a late night hunting and not enough sleep. She’d smiled—not a _knowing_ one, but a kind one—and Ichigo could tell then that he was being defensive. He didn’t even know what he would’ve said had she pressed him, because he _hadn’t_ had a long night, hadn’t even been able to catch a single hollow in _days_.  
  
And it wasn’t for lack of trying: when he received orders, he’d reach the coordinates to find only the occasional shivering, terrified wandering soul; Grimmjow’s reiatsu still palpable in the area but the man himself never lingering like he had before. The part the asshole usually enjoyed most was rubbing in the fact that he’d stolen Ichigo’s prey, and it only managed to piss Ichigo off more that he didn’t.  
  
More often than not, instead of out hunting, Ichigo found himself alone in his apartment staring at the ceiling and unable to sleep. Memories circled his brain and tightened his body; sometimes it was enough to drive him aimlessly wandering around town, stupidly hoping he’d cross paths with the arrancar—as though he was nursing an embarrassing crush. He could just as easily fix the problem himself, but masturbation was becoming so routine it was almost mechanical.  
  
Neither avenue was exactly satisfying. The fact that the source of his frustration was stubbornly avoiding him only served to make everything that much worse.  
  
There was a sort of crystalline clarity that occurred only at two in the morning when Ichigo knew he’d have to be up and carrying on life as normal in only a few hours. He had a hard time calling Grimmjow’s behavior anything other than evasive—but he knew that wasn’t true; it could also be a dismissal, as though Grimmjow had gotten everything he wanted and had no further use for him.  
  
The latter idea pissed him off the worst, because if that stupid prick thought things were over Ichigo couldn’t wait to show him how wrong he was. It wasn’t like Ichigo had finished with him, not by a mile.  
  
_It was just sex_ , he repeated mentally. People did it all the time. People, admittedly, who weren’t Ichigo. But simply because he _didn’t_ do it didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to.  
  
If he’d been certain of anything, it was that it would always be just sex with Grimmjow. Stupidly, he’d completely ignored any other complications until it was too late to take things back, and it left him more angry at himself than ever. Was he really so badly led around by his own dick? Ichigo’d never acted on such impulses before because he knew better: it was a treacherous distraction in the thick of a fight and unfair to the rest if he placed one person higher in his mind.  
  
It was one of the reasons that things had inexplicably worked –or obviously _hadn’t_ , Ichigo reminded himself—with Grimmjow: he knew where he stood with the other man. Getting emotionally attached wasn’t exactly in the cards. Heated attraction tempered with mutual hatred didn’t tend produce anything that lasted.  
  
As much as he wanted to, he restrained himself from chasing after the bastard. Then he really _would_ be acting like an idiot, and he felt like a big enough one to begin with.  
  
Ichigo knew he shouldn’t have been relieved, but when another dull night was interrupted by an order—of arrancar, no less—Ichigo was thankful for it. It could only mean one thing: Aizen had managed to restore the hougyoku or had found some other method of creating troops; either way, this attack would catch Soul Society flat-footed. Reinforcements were already on their way from Seireitei but Ichigo didn’t care to wait for them, itching for a fight as he was.  
  
His sandals made scuffing steps, barely touching the rooftops as he raced towards the arrancar’s reiatsu. There were two groups spread on either side of the city, and he could feel Grimmjow near one already. It made a small, nagging worry surface—Grimmjow was always mercurial, and Ichigo had no doubts that the arrancar’s loyalty lay only to himself. There was nothing but bitter resentment between them for the limiting of his power which Aizen could easily restore. Ichigo knew Grimmjow would take serving his old master over the chafing existence he had now—provided it was offered, and Ichigo wasn’t sure that would be the case.  
  
Grimmjow was a useful tool but always one that cut both ways. He’d done enough to ruin his loyal reputation in the past and if Aizen felt arrogant enough to launch an attack, he wouldn’t much need a broken toy soldier when he could just as easily make more.  
  
The arrancar’s reiatsu built like a red scream in his mind until Ichigo was upon them; he recognized one as Yammy, leaner than he remembered and far more powerful. Near him was a female arrancar with dark hair that framed the fragment of her mask, hanging like an exposed socket over her left eye.  
  
Grimmjow was locked in a grapple with them, glancing up and grinning as Ichigo approached. He broke away leaving Yammy’s arm dangling as though it had been pulled loose from his shoulder.  
  
Grimmjow alighted on the edge of a building and Ichigo joined him, a small tension easing inside him. Ichigo didn’t want to be relieved, but he was.  
  
“Yo!” A shallow slash on Grimmjow’s forehead left his mask gleaming red, teeth bared like a calcite knife. “Late as always, yeah?”  
  
And just seeing him again after the weeks of conspicuous absence was enough to set Ichigo’s heart banging away in his chest. “I missed you,” he said, stupidly, the words out of his mouth before he realized he hadn’t just thought them. He wanted to bite off his own tongue for laying it out so plainly, a soft spot for Grimmjow to poke at.  
  
Grimmjow looked at him oddly for a moment before his eyes narrowed. “Hn, I bet.”  
  
Then he was on Ichigo, sonido not even leaving a ripple in the air as he drew along side, one hand threading in his hair. The gesture was disturbingly intimate and Ichigo could feel hot needles prickling over his skin.  
  
Grimmjow’s lips brushed his ear, smiling through his words, “You just can’t wait to get me between your legs again, huh? Fucking slut.”  
  
Ichigo twisted away and punched him in the face, cheeks burning. Grimmjow barely seemed to register the blow, instead slamming his knee into Ichigo’s stomach and sending him staggering back.  
  
Ichigo hunched over, spitting out a mouthful of bile. “What is your fucking problem?”  
  
“Just the same one as always,” Grimmjow answered with a bubbling giggle, “Guess I missed you too, shinigami.”  
  
Yammy was at his back in an instant, a warning shout half out of Ichigo’s mouth but Grimmjow blocked the attack casually. He glared at the other arrancar as though he were nothing more than a nuisance. “Fuck off! I’m busy.”  
  
Ichigo seized the opportunity as the two arrancar grappled, darting forward to leave a deep gash across Yammy’s chest and sending the larger man out of reach and coughing up blood.  
  
Grimmjow scowled in irritation. “Oi, he was mine—“  
  
“Shut the fuck up, asshole! I have more important things right now than a fight with you.”  
  
“Heh, rather it be you than this filth,” Grimmjow said, “Let’s finish up with these two so I can get another chance at that hot little tail of yours.”  
  
Ichigo was at him in an instant, flushing with fury and something close to shame. He knew Grimmjow was baiting him, pissed that it was working. “You’re only making sure it never happens again, you stupid fuck!”  
  
“That’s more like it,” Grimmjow said, catching the collar of his shirt and dragging them together, his voice low. “I should’ve fucked you a long time ago seeing how fast it gets you serious.”  
  
Ichigo spat in his face.  
  
“I keep remembering those pretty noises you made when I get myself off. I can smell how bad you want it right now and it’s making me so hard.” As if to emphasize the point, Grimmjow looped a spidery hand against the small of his back, erection stiff between them. Ichigo twisted his wrist sharply, digging his trapped sword into Grimmjow’s skin and breaking through his hierro as they tore apart.  
  
Grimmjow’s claw-like fingers left deep scratches across his hip and Ichigo sucked air through clenched teeth, his throat tight. But he welcomed the physical pain; it masked his sharp humiliation, focusing him on what mattered. Though he didn’t like to admit it, they had bigger enemies and a petty fight with Grimmjow would have to wait.  
  
A static burst behind them had Ichigo turning, but Grimmjow beat him to the female arrancar. “It’s rude to interrupt,” he said, hand covering her face like a shroud, “stay outta the way while the adults’re busy.”  
  
The woman’s scream was engulfed by a red blast of cero that took off her head and one shoulder, the rest of her body disintegrating as it stumbled and fell.  
  
“Shit!” Ichigo turned to find a rapidly healing black wound in the sky all that remained of Yammy.  
  
“Aw, how sad; you let the bad guys get away,” Grimmjow simpered. “Just you and me now, little hero.”  
  
“No Grimmjow, it’s only you,” Ichigo snorted, seething at the loss of their enemy, seething at Grimmjow. “I’m not playing whatever game you think this is.”  
  
“That right?” Grimmjow’s tongue flicked across the leering edge of his mask. “And you seemed to be having so much _fun_ last time.”  
  
His sword snapped against Grimmjow’s steel skin as the arrancar leapt at him.  
  
“Tell me you hated it, yeah? I wanna hear it out of your lying mouth, just how dirty it made you feel, how much you just can’t fucking stand yourself.”  
  
“Then tell me the same! You never know when to back off but here you’ve been playing hard to get.”  
  
Grimmjow answered him with a bubbling cackle, smug grin crinkling the painted markings around his eyes. “Maybe you just weren’t as good as I hoped.”  
  
“Now who’s the liar?”  
  
“Oh, you just think so goddamn much of yourself, don’t you?” Grimmjow’s fist came slamming into his chin, whipping his neck back with a sick crack. “It’s those eyes of yours I hate, Kurosaki. Always think you’re winning when you couldn’t be more wrong.”  
  
Ichigo’s teeth felt weirdly misaligned as he shook his head to clear it, stumbling and dizzy. Grimmjow’s body collided with his, slamming him up against a wall suddenly at his back; Ichigo hadn’t even noticed he was boxed in. Grimmjow’s body melted against his as he snatched Ichigo’s wrist, fingers digging into the pressure points before smashing it against concrete. Ichigo gasped, hand spasming as his sword fell from numb fingers.  
  
Grimmjow’s cock jabbed his stomach as Ichigo writhed to get free. “Oh, that’s nice, don’t stop.”  
  
Ichigo bucked angrily before stilling, knowing a struggle would only excite the arrancar more. Grimmjow had trapped him with little leverage and Ichigo felt his own body responding eagerly to the contact; it was embarrassing.  
  
A long moment passed before Grimmjow pulled away to glare at him. “That all the fight you got, shinigami? How disappointing.”  
  
“Let go of me, you _asshole_.”  
  
“No,” Grimmjow said, the callused pad of his thumb massaging Ichigo’s aching inner wrist. “I like you this way. Helpless.” His hips rocked forward, “Seems like I’m not the only one.”  
  
That set off another bought of wild thrashing, stupid as it was, their bodies connecting in the worst ways. With his head the only thing Ichigo could easily move, he darted forward, catching Grimmjow’s lower lip in his teeth. Grimmjow seemed startled by that, surprisingly, and Ichigo pressed the advantage, taking his mouth hard and biting.  
  
The arrancar groaned, his own teeth scraping against Ichigo’s tongue to send a jolt straight to his trapped erection. The grip on his body loosened and Ichigo shifted, kicking Grimmjow sharply in the side of the knee to send him staggering and cursing.  
  
Ichigo dove for his sword only to meet Grimmjow’s fist, which popped him right in the nose with a gristly crunch. The pain was sharp and immediate, driving the air from him as effectively as a blade to the gut.  
  
“Fuck, you piece of shit,” he gasped, one hand covering his seeping nose. It was probably broken. Ichigo let his shoulders slump against the wall behind him while he glared venomously at Grimmjow. “What is _wrong_ with you?”  
  
“It’s sad that you gotta ask, shinigami,” he sneered, keeping distance between them as he favored his injured leg. Ichigo hadn’t hit him hard enough to break it, but suddenly wished he had. “You’re still my enemy and it’s just tickling me pink that you seem to’ve forgot that.”  
  
Ichigo snorted and immediately regretting it as blood flooded his tongue. He gagged, and as though Grimmjow could smell it, he swooped in, catching Ichigo’s jaw and lapping crudely at his mouth.  
  
Ichigo shoved him away, hand slipping in the blood covering the arrancar’s chest. The wound he’d left was shallow but effective, and Grimmjow jerked away from his touch. He caught the collar of his jacket, holding Grimmjow at arm’s length; his lips glistened redly and Ichigo could tell his own face had to look a mess.  
  
“You’re not convincing me one bit, you jackass,” he snapped, taking a step towards the other man and Grimmjow twisted from his grip, matching him as they circled each other like two predators. “You’ve been running scared for the last month and I wanna know why. You finally want something from me more than you want to kill me, and you just don’t know how to fucking _deal_ , am I right?”  
  
“Oh, I can cope just fine, shinigami; you’re the one I’m worried about. You ain’t looking too good and here I’m barely getting started.”  
  
“I guess acting like an animal must make things easier,” Ichigo spat, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Grimmjow followed his movements and Ichigo could see the tension in his frame as he restrained himself—from what, Ichigo was sure he could guess.  
  
“At least I’m not ashamed of what I want,” Grimmjow shrugged, smiling. The bloodied edge of his mask shone like exposed bone through tissue and Ichigo fought a sudden impulse to run his tongue along the ridges of it.  
  
“Who says _I_ am?” Ichigo said angrily, almost a shout.  
  
Then Grimmjow had him slammed up against the wall, face close enough that their lips almost touched. The arrancar’s breath was heated against Ichigo’s skin, already slick and damp with his own blood; it made a sudden panic jerk low in his chest and Grimmjow snatched one flailing arm before it could strike him.  
  
“Might not be ashamed but you sure are scared, I can smell it coming off you.” Grimmjow’s free hand gripped his jaw and he hissed, “You think you know what I want? I want to make you _scream_.”  
  
Ichigo’s breath hitched painfully and he honestly couldn’t tell if it was in fear or anticipation.  
  
“I want to feel you _break_. Your body under mine, shaking like you’re dying—I want to open you up until there’s nothing left to take. It would be like killing you over and over again. And you wouldn’t just let me, would you, I’d have to earn it every time—”  
  
“ _Yes_.” Their lips brushed together in a teasing contact as Ichigo said it. He turned his face so their foreheads touched and Grimmjow flinched, breath shivering between them.  
  
“Think you want that, huh?”  
  
Ichigo wasn’t sure, with it stated in such naked terms. But the words tightened things in his body, a heightening of his senses—sex like a good fight and yeah, he could do that. “Heh, maybe.”  
  
“You can’t—”Grimmjow thrust him away violently and Ichigo felt his temper flare at having everything snatched out of reach at the last moment.  
  
“Why not? Why _can’t_ I?”  
  
Grimmjow didn’t seem to have an answer for that, his teeth bared like a dog’s and nostrils flaring a moment before he leapt into the air, sonido scratching the air as he disappeared.  
  
Left suddenly alone, Ichigo felt stunned and then empty; everything used up and excitement fading to harsh disappointment. He cursed, the taste of blood still heavy in his mouth and the ache of his broken nose giving way to a dull throb. He’d have to see Inoue about that, he knew, mechanically gathering his sword before leaving the rooftop himself.  
  
_That_ could have gone better, he thought with the euphoric internal monologue of the emotionally exhausted, though Ichigo couldn’t exactly figure out how. He shut his eyes tightly and shook his head, weariness seeping into his bones and making it difficult to lift his eyelids. He willed it out of his mind—he didn’t have the time to sort through what a mess they’d both made when so many more important things were happening.  
  
It seemed like ages had passed since he’d received his first orders of the night.  
  
Ichigo knew he could ignore the sick feeling in his gut because getting close to Grimmjow shouldn’t’ve happened at all. But it remained hours later, as he lay awake through the last early hours of the morning, watching his ceiling and unable to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
And then Grimmjow was gone, for a month that stretched into the next. If he was waiting for Ichigo to seek him out, the prick was sorely fucking mistaken. Let him skulk around like a kicked dog—which he did, Grimmjow’s presence never wandered far from Karakura and Ichigo could feel him close by at times—Grimmjow wasn’t one and Ichigo wasn’t about to explain that to him.  
  
Though it rankled a bit—the way he’d acted like such the fucking victim the last time. Ichigo clamped his teeth down on any nagging self-blame that threatened to surface. Grimmjow made an art form out of being a complete jackass and more than anything, the other man’s knowing leer still brought with it a hot rush of humiliation.  
  
They’d both been privately licking their wounds since that last fight.  
  
Everything about Grimmjow, from his obnoxious swagger to his bared chest served as a constant advertisement of his strength and power, and in his leering smile, his madness. It was about as subtle as being repeatedly punched in the face, which wasn’t far from the mark either. He hadn’t lost an inch of that attitude and despite himself, Ichigo was glad to have that over abject misery at being held captive. Ichigo didn’t like to think of it in those terms, but self-delusion had gotten him into enough of a mess already.  
  
If nothing else, he knew Grimmjow wouldn’t need (and would resent if he knew) the few moments of worry Ichigo spared on him as the arrancar forces once again breached the boundaries between worlds.  
  
Perhaps it was cruel—but not nearly as bad as Grimmjow would lead him to believe—to dampen the arrancar’s power, especially now that things had begun to get dangerous again, but Ichigo reminded himself just how fucking well-deserved the measure was. There wasn’t much doubt in his mind—especially following their last fight—that if it _was_ lifted, Grimmjow had be challenging him to the death in no time and it wasn’t a fight Ichigo was sure he’d win.  
  
The return to his duties was a relief in many respects, mainly as it kept Ichigo’s brain _off_ the fucking asshole and focused on greater things. Most of the time.  
  
In the heat of a fight with Rukia by his side, Grimmjow’s reiatsu had surfaced in Ichigo’s mind: nearby, lurking, excited. He was probably watching, the stupid fuck, and as Ichigo’s attention shifted, the tail of a hollow whipped out and slammed him rolling into the ground.  
  
Rukia had finished it as he staggered to his feet relearning to breathe. She stalked purposefully towards him before slapping him soundly across the back of his head.  
  
“Idiot Ichigo!” she spat in annoyance. “Do not become distracted, fool!”  
  
He’d apologized, bitterly, more annoyed at himself than anything.  
  
Rukia glared at him as though debating whether or not to pursue the cause of his stupidity, but he jumped off, searching out their next target.  
  
Yes—idiot, stupid, fool: Ichigo was all of these things and wanted even less to share the reason for them.  
  
He was fighting a numeros for too long a time considering its weak reiatsu, but the thing had enough power in its released form, spitting needles of bone that came in waves he could barely dodge. As a second appeared, he began to worry—drawing out his hollow mask and ready to finish it, however possible—when Grimmjow showed up, his reiatsu like a lighting bolt that didn’t stop until his fist was through one of the arrancar.  
  
Its body powdered into raw reishi and Grimmjow grinned his fucking smile through it like he’d been planning that move for weeks. “Yo,” he said, and pounced on Ichigo. “Miss me this time?”  
  
“You have to stay away for that to work, you _ass_ ,” Ichigo snapped, throwing his free fist into Grimmjow’s side only to have him dodge at the last minute.  
  
Grimmjow answered with a barking laugh and Ichigo braced himself, but just as suddenly the other man was behind him, his back thumping heavily against Ichigo’s. “Get in over your head? Fucking pussy.”  
  
“I don’t need your help,” Ichigo seethed over his shoulder, voice rough through his mask.  
  
Grimmjow cackled and for once, Ichigo was glad to hear it, loud and mocking though it was.  
  
“Used to fucking hate that,” he said. “You getting your cocky ass into too big a fight and some motherfucker always showing up to pull you out of the shit you’d stepped in.”  
  
He leaned against Ichigo, a solid weight at his back. “It’s a funny thing, shinigami. You make people _want_ to save your stupid ass.”  
  
“That better not happen to you,” Ichigo said, and meant it.  
  
“Hah! Don’t flatter yourself, bitch.” Grimmjow punctuated the statement with a sharp elbow to Ichigo’s kidney. “If you get flattened by a piece of shit like this I’ll tear you out of Soul Society just so I can kill you myself.”  
  
He sprang at their remaining opponent, Ichigo joining him and the arrancar was cut down in moments. A shallow wound on his scalp left Ichigo’s face wet and the inside of his mask slippery as he removed it.  
  
Grimmjow followed him with shadowed eyes.  
  
“I’ve had this itch for days, shinigami. I can’t tell if I wanna fight you or fuck you.” His eyes narrowed before he tipped his head back, hands on his hips like he was putting himself on full display. The posture alone shouldn’t have been enough to make Ichigo’s heart slam hard against his sternum, and it annoyed him that it did.  
  
“And really, why compromise?” Ichigo shot back. “I know the way you think, dipshit.”  
  
Grimmjow let a smile cut across his face, shrugging. “Just a shame, really—jerking off on the other side of town when I could have what I want. Pisses me off so bad I could kill you for it.”  
  
“You are an asshole, a huge, fucking asshole,” Ichigo said, shaking wet hair out of his face. “And that is the shittiest proposition I’ve ever heard.”  
  
Grimmjow laughed at that. “You’re not saying no!”  
  
Ichigo snorted. No, he wasn’t, and the honest part of him was saying _fuck it_ : Grimmjow was the worst sort of trouble to willingly go chasing after, but Ichigo knew he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to. And if this was what it took to reach some sort of equilibrium between the two of them, so be it. He could match Grimmjow blow for blow if that was what he wanted.  
  
His eye twitched as he felt reiatsu building in his mind. Someone was coming—Rukia, and others. Grimmjow had felt it too, visibly tensing.  
  
“Get the fuck out of here, shithead,” Ichigo said, smirking himself. “You fucking piss me off.”  
  
“Che. That still ain’t a no.” Grimmjow turned, a burst of sonido and he was gone from the spot. “Catch you later, shinigami.”  
  
Ichigo was left with anticipation jumping in his stomach. He wasn’t sure what it was for: a fight or a fuck. With Grimmjow, it wasn’t like there was much distance separating the two.  
  
  
  
  
Grimmjow blew him off for another week, hoping to stir Ichigo up enough that the other man would come after him, disappointed when he never did.  
  
Now, Grimmjow had never claimed to be the wiliest strategizer, but for any fight he started he was always the strongest. If the chips didn’t fall in his favor, that was tough shit and he’d make sure it never happened again. As he was lacking most of his strength, it all came down to willpower, and that was strength itself. It was a new way of thinking and Grimmjow didn’t much like having to make the transition.  
  
It meant a lot more _thinking_ and a lot less _doing_. Though the dead never rested quietly in Hueco Mundo, there was a stark calmness to the endless, empty sand dunes and never-ending night. That black-and-whiteness wasn’t limited to just the scenery and Grimmjow ached for the simplicity of it again. Things just weren’t fucking _complicated_ : you lived or you died; you got hungry, you ate; everything governed by instincts that let you know when it was a good time for a fight or when it was a good time to run away.  
  
Listening to his gut hadn’t failed in the past but for the last month it’d been telling him that there was a perfectly good fuck waiting just across town, an interesting little diversion that promised to make Grimmjow’s wholly _uninteresting_ existence a lot more lively.  
  
It hadn’t escaped his attention that that same person was the one responsible for his recent spate of exceptionally bad luck. You could cut it any two ways—and Grimmjow knew the shinigami had some complicated self-rationalization process that absolved him of any wrong-doing—but he was still Grimmjow’s keeper, putting him on a shiny leash and taking him out to play once in a while.  
  
The thought made the old wound surface like a sharp punch to a fresh scar. If Ichigo wanted to tame him with kindness, Grimmjow was just as sure to make such a thing _im-fucking-possible_ for the little bastard.  
  
But it didn’t mean he couldn’t have what he wanted—and he wanted plenty, all of it from Ichigo; things the shinigami thought he could give up without consequence but Grimmjow knew how vulnerable it would make him. This could be a nice little arrangement in a purely visceral sense but it also gave Grimmjow the chance to worm his way under the fucker’s skin and get his hooks in deep. Things would swing back in his favor inevitably and when they did, Ichigo’s own attachments would make twisting the knife stabbed in his back that much sweeter.  
  
It wasn’t exactly his style to lay deep-seated plans, but nobody said Grimmjow Jaegerjacques couldn’t roll with the goddamn punches he was dealt. Ichigo was just a bright little ray of vital sunshine that couldn’t help but draw people in; Grimmjow being no exception but he’d just as soon use that warmth up as bask in it, keeping it all for himself. It’d be like ruining something beautiful, and he couldn’t fucking wait to see the shinigami’s face when he finally did.  
  
As much as Grimmjow enjoyed running the idea over and over again in his mind, the constant thinking was a waste of time for anything but chewing all of his nails down to the quick. Nagging doubt left him in a rotten fucking mindset, so when he let himself through an open window and into Ichigo’s apartment, he strangled it with as much lusty confidence as he could muster—which was quite a lot, Grimmjow was not sorry to say. The kid didn’t even register his presence, hunched over busy at his desk and starting when he noticed Grimmjow.  
  
It made a wicked smile curve his lips. “Leaving yourself open like that’s just _asking_ for trouble, shinigami.”  
  
“What if that’s what I wanted?” Ichigo’s eyes lingered on his bare torso and it made Grimmjow’s skin tingle in eager anticipation.  
  
He hated long moments where it felt like a decision was being made, so he grabbed a fistful of the little prick’s shirt and wiped the smirk off his face with his own mouth. “Then you better hold on tight.”  
  
Ichigo’s body was hard against his as they stumbled towards his bed, Grimmjow stripping him while the kid clawed at him. They hit the mattress and he laid Ichigo out, wanting the taste and feel of him against his tongue again. Oh, he’d wanted it like this, in all the days he’d avoided the little fucker—to have Ichigo under him, all that power buckling beneath his hands.  
  
And Ichigo _let_ him. That alone made him harder than anything.  
  
He sucked the kid off, mapping the effects of his mouth through Ichigo’s shuddering frame and when he’d finished, the shinigami pushed him on his back and did the same. It made Grimmjow feel dazed, like he’d been sucker-punched.  
  
Neither of them moved from where they lay and Grimmjow woke from a doze to being kissed hungrily. Ichigo crawled right on top of him, covering Grimmjow with his lanky frame and his hands were swift and urgent between them. Ichigo came gasping against Grimmjow’s mouth, naked and obscene while his thin fingers slid wetly over them both.  
  
Grimmjow lost track of time after that, already morning by the time he came around again with Ichigo still warm beside him.  
  
He wondered briefly how long this could carry on; in his mind, he had enough ideas to keep them where they were for a few weeks. But then Ichigo asked Grimmjow to fuck him— _finally_ —and pretty much any other thought evaporated against the heat of that tight body under his.  
  
The real thing was better than anything Grimmjow’s sordid imaginings had come up with; he could whisper something utterly _filthy_ into Ichigo’s ear and his tongue would flick out, sliding against his teeth as though he were tasting the words hot off Grimmjow’s tongue. Ichigo rose to meet him, blunted nails leaving marks along his shoulders and hips as Grimmjow took him slow and deep, dragging them both out until they were slick with sweat. Ichigo was like fluid against him and when he came it was with a sound that was a moan and a death rattle wrapped up into one.  
  
“’M hungry,” Ichigo mumbled moments later, palm resting open on Grimmjow’s heaving chest.  
  
He grunted in return. Hungry, yeah, and both of them probably stinking like fresh hell warmed over.  
  
“How long’re we gonna keep this up?”  
  
“You can still talk. I must not’ve fucked you hard enough.”  
  
Ichigo made a sound at that, amused and exhausted, his lips quirking in a tired half-smile. “Need to get up. New orders prob’ly. Just gimme a minute...”  
  
He watched Ichigo’s closed eyelids flutter like he was staving off sleep, something deep and sated curling in Grimmjow’s gut. It was a clear sort of achingly good, the mirror image to the climax of a fight; Grimmjow knew he could grow addicted to it and was certain he really didn’t care.  
  
He wondered for a moment if that meant he was going soft, but shoved the notion aside. What was the point in enjoying something if you only did it in tiny pieces? Grimmjow and vice were pretty fast friends, and he knew he was strong enough to shrug it off when he needed to.  
  
He wrapped an arm around Ichigo’s long torso, resting his forehead against one bony shoulder. “Mmn, shut up. Sleep.”  
  
He said it like a command, though Ichigo didn’t respond, already passed out, warm and alive. Almost like something Grimmjow wanted to call his own, in a mean, possessive way. The trust Ichigo had granted him with was just another piece of himself given up, and Grimmjow knew he’d be back for the rest of it.  
  
The smell of Ichigo filled up his lungs like a drug, fogging his brain in a dewy haze. Though he resisted it for a moment, Grimmjow followed his example and was dead to the world within minutes, the last things his mind cared for being the slow, steady beat of that living heart under his ear.


End file.
